The Devil Wears Fioravanti
by carnifax
Summary: Harvey/Mike. People say that Harvey Specter isn't human; that he's too good at his job, too handsome, too connected, too charming to be a mere mortal... And they're right.


**The Devil Wears Fioravanti**

By carnifax (originally posted to tumblr)  
>Suits<br>Harvey/Mike  
>Rated M<br>Chapter Warnings: Gore  
>Supernatural | Romance<br>_People say that Harvey Specter isn't human; that he's too good at his job, too handsome, too connected, too charming to be a mere mortal... And they're right._

* * *

><p>They were bickering, when it happened.<p>

They were bickering about some insignificant thing that Mike had done wrong at the client meeting, how he hadn't taken notes—or even _pretended_ to take notes. Appearances matter, Harvey was saying. It's past midnight on a Friday, was Mike's retort.

It wasn't like Harvey to be this antsy about something so small. Well, yes, it was, sometimes—but today Harvey was especially upright. He'd been acting strangely all day: staring into empty corners, snapping at Mike for things Harvey had _told_ him to do, telling Mike to ask permission before he did so much as left his cubicle. He had even made Mike buckle his seatbelt as they rode the towncar back to the office.

Harvey was mid-sentence when suddenly his voice cut off. Mike looked up, only having a fraction of a second to take in Harvey's widening eyes and the sound of tires squealing before something slammed into Mike's side of the car. Mike's head hit the window and just before he fell into unconsciousness, he felt the car spinning.

When Mike came back to the world, everything was quiet, every sound dulled against the constant static buzzing in his ears. He felt his heart jump into a too-fast rhythm, but his mind hadn't caught up with his body yet, at least until he opened his eyes.

The car, he quickly realized, was tilted. The passenger's side—Mike's side—had its tires on the ground, but the entire left side of the car was lifted a few feet from the cement, propped up by a thick, cracked telephone post. The windows were gone, smashed into a thousand pieces. The roof was dented, too—they must have rolled. He couldn't see their driver—the divider screen was up—but Harvey was—

_Shit_.

Mike's focus went to the empty seat next to him, only now realizing that there should've been a well-dressed lawyer there. And there wasn't.

_Shit. Shit. Fuck._

He turned his head to look out the window and instantly regretted it, sucking in a jagged gasp as pain shot up his spine and gathered in his skull. It was a long few seconds before the white faded and he could see again.

He tried to breathe evenly—a surprisingly difficult task—and pushed Harvey out of his mind for a minute. He had injuries. Wherever Harvey was, Mike wasn't going to be much help if he couldn't even move. So Mike let out a slow breath and looked down, surveying his body in the low light of the car.

He started with his arms. His left seemed fine—all fingers wiggled the right way, at least—but his right arm just _looked_ broken, from the way it was pinned up against the crushed door. He didn't even try to move it.

Then, his legs. Both were pinned by the door, but he could move them with no pain. Good enough.

Lastly, his torso. With his good arm, he pulled away one flap of his jacket—and froze.

There was a piece of something black sticking out of his abdomen at an odd angle. It had cut through his shirt and, from the way it burned deep below his skin, was embedded pretty damn far in. He gingerly touched the edge of the object and choked out a groan, curling in on himself at the pain. It went deeper than he thought. He wasn't going to be able to get it out.

_Fuck_. If he died here, gammy wouldn't have a way to pay for the sky-high nursing home bills. She'd be alone. And Trevor—fucking Trevor—damn Trevor to hell—but who would get him out of jail now? And, oh god, Jenny and Rachel. And Harvey…

The white of his shirt was darkening with blood; the red of it snapped him back to reality.

Fuck.

_Harvey_.

Mike looked out the window, praying that Harvey would just be standing outside, staring at his watch, looking a little bit annoying and a little bit fond, like he always did when Mike showed up late.

But it was dark on the road; Mike's eyes hadn't adjusted. They were outside the city, but not quite into suburbia yet, and streetlights didn't seem to exist. So Mike waited, staring into the darkness, until shapes began to appear. He realized, as he stared, that his lungs felt thick, like he was gurgling instead of breathing, and _jesus christ_ it fucking _hurt_. He coughed; it wasn't air in his throat, but blood.

He would've let himself worry, except just then his eyes caught on the outline of a body in the road, a few yards away from their car.

There were simultaneous surges of grief and relief when Mike squinted and recognized Harvey's suit. Harvey was on his back, face turned away from Mike, one arm bent at a horrible angle, the other calmly laying at his side. Mike swallowed thickly when he saw Harvey's legs; one was crushed, literally flattened, from mid-calf to his ankle. The other leg had something sticking out of it, a flat pane that looked like the one in Mike's stomach, except much wider.

But what terrified Mike the most was that Harvey wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't twitching. Nothing.

"Harvey," Mike said, wanting Harvey to answer more than he had ever wanted anything. "Harv—" There was a spasm in his chest and he choked, spluttering more blood. It ran hot down his chin, the metallicness of it lingering in Mike's mouth. "_Harvey_!" he barked, louder, ignoring the pain.

The man still hadn't moved.

Mike let his head fall back against the seat, abruptly too weak to do otherwise, but he turned it to look at Harvey.

It was ironic, he realized, this was all very ironic. He had never expected to be faced with death on this job, this cushy laywering job—_fake_ lawyering, even—but now that he was, it wasn't even like the stories said. His life wasn't flashing before his eyes. His regrets weren't forming a list in his head.

He just wished his cellphone wasn't in the messenger bag at his feet, where he couldn't reach it. Maybe he wouldn't make it long enough for EMTs to help him, but maybe Harvey could. Harvey could do anything, after all.

Mike smiled despite himself, and coughed again, spitting the blood out the window.

He figured that was his biggest regret, if he excluded Trevor. He had wanted Harvey, more than the older man could've even imagined, for the longest time, and yet he'd never so much as flirted with him.

It might not have gotten anywhere, but he _should've_, at least to put an end to those moments where Mike would be doing something inane, like reading a book or making breakfast, and all the while imagining how it would be different if he and Harvey were together. If Mike were cooking, maybe Harvey would come up behind him and wrap his arms around Mike's waist. Maybe Harvey wasn't a morning person, and would groggily perch on the counter beside the stove until Mike shoved a plate of bacon and eggs into his hands. Or maybe Harvey _was_ a morning person, and would nudge Mike awake at 6:30 every morning for a lazy bout of sex before Harvey went to the gym. Or maybe even _Harvey_ would be the one to—

A groan made Mike focus again. It was like swimming through thick water, but eventually Mike reached the surface, and realized that the noise had come from Harvey. It was impossible—the man had been perfectly still a minute ago—but it _was_. It was _Harvey_.

"Harvey," Mike said, more of a moan than anything.

He heard a mumbled response, and forgot how to breathe when Harvey turned his head to look at Mike.

There was a shard of glass protruding from Harvey's hairline, and blood covering the entire left half of his face. Mike felt dizzy, but he managed to push it aside because the man was staring at him, blinking slowly, clearly puzzled, but alive and awake.

Harvey groaned again, pushing himself upright with one arm. He put a hand on the back of his neck and, with a sickening snap, threw his head back. He panted out a breath at the effort and then rolled his shoulders, turning his head this way and that.

Then his fingers touched the glass in his forehead. Mike didn't understand the exasperation in his expression. There was no worry in his features, just irritation. But Mike was having trouble understanding a lot right now. He was just so _tired_, and everything was foggy.

Harvey held the glass shard between two fingers and gave it a firm tug. It slid easily out of his head—all five inches of it. And Harvey looked down at the bloodied glass, only a little annoyed.

Mike vomited then, blood and Chinese takeout, on the floor of the backseat. It set off an agonizing spike of pain from his abdomen, which tore through his torso with a heat unlike anything he'd felt before.

"Oh, _shit_," Harvey's voice came into his ears.

Mike heard him get up—which he didn't understand, Harvey's legs had looked _so_ fucked up before—and then Mike's door opened, jostling Mike's broken arm enough to rip another shout from Mike's throat.

Mike didn't want to look at him—not if he could see the gaping hole where the glass had gone in—but Harvey kneeled outside the car and grabbed Mike's chin, turning it toward him.

Mike didn't pay attention to Harvey; through his mental fog, his eyes focused only on Harvey's forehead, where the gash was. Or, where the gash _should've_ been. But the gaping, massive head wound was nearly closed, nearly gone. And then it _was_ gone, the skin stitching itself back into place, until there was only blood left.

"Mike," Harvey said, trying to get his attention. "Where are you injured?"

"Your head just—" He coughed, wheezed in a wet gasp. "It fucking _healed_—"

"Mike. _Focus_." Harvey leaned closer. "What hurts?"

It took a second for Mike to hear what he said. "Stomach," he finally managed. Then, sharply, "Don't touch it!"

Harvey shifted as close as he could, cautiously peeling back Mike's lapels. His features contorted into genuine horror, only telling Mike what he already knew: This was bad. Very bad.

Harvey must have touched the piece of metal because red-hot pain speared up his spine. Mike tried to hold back a moan, throwing his head back against the seat, jaw clenched.

"I said, don't—"

"Shh," Harvey murmured. He put his hands on either side of Mike's face, forcing him to meet his eyes, trying to get him to focus. "Mike, listen."

"Don't touch it," Mike begged. There were tears streaking down his cheeks, but he barely noticed. "_Don't_—"

"Mike, _Mike_. Listen. Do you trust me?"

"I—It hurts—"

"_Michael James Fucking Ross_," Harvey snarled; it stopped Mike short. "Either you trust me or you're dead, soon."

Mike was trembling. His vision was beginning to tunnel inwards, like the one time Trevor decked him so hard between the legs that he fainted. Fucking Trevor.

"_Mike_, jesus, _c'mon_." Harvey slapped him. "I can help you. But you have to let me. I need you to say yes first." A pause; "_Mike_!"

Mike looked at him, unfocused. He coughed up blood again; his throat was too thick with it to speak. He nodded instead, only once, but it was enough.

"This is going to hurt," was all the warning Mike got before Harvey grabbed the metal plate with both hands and yanked it out of his stomach. He felt it dislodging from his skin and everything went white with a pain so strong that it made him numb. He didn't know if he was screaming or if someone else was, but the sound was in his ears and it echoed in his throat and his lungs and—

"It's okay," Harvey was murmuring when Mike came back to him, his voice calm, coaxing his associate down. He was rolling up his own sleeve. "It'll be okay, you just need to hold on for another minute."

Mike saw him pick up a chunk of glass from the ground. For a second, Mike thought he might perform a mercy killing on Mike. But the idea was almost comforting. He could feel himself sliding into exhaustion anyway; may as well get there a little quicker.

Mike's eyes didn't catch it, but Harvey must have cut himself because all at once there was blood down his arm, and Harvey—strangely enough—was tracing a design with the blood onto the skin of Mike's torso, so dark that it almost looked black. And then Harvey began murmuring something, a repetitive and low hissing sort of sound, with his hand pressed firmly against the design.

At first it felt warm, tingling, and Mike was too confused to notice it; but then Harvey's eyes darkened and he pressed his palm harder against Mike's skin, and the warmth became a flame. It caught fire to Mike's veins and coursed through him, making him shiver and writhe against Harvey's touch. He felt Harvey's other palm touch his cheek, meant as a comforting gesture, but it just made the fire spread faster. Mike would've yelled if he had been able to breathe. There were words in his ears, not only Harvey's but others', too, and then he felt his own tongue moving, his own lips pronouncing words he never learned, chanting along with the rest.

His right arm snapped back into place and he could feel things inside of him shifting. His ribs snapped and burned; his chest became looser, his lungs drier; his skin felt like it was being pulled together over the laceration the metal had made. He could almost hear his body correcting itself; he could feel the cells reproducing and migrating and connecting to one another.

Slowly, the chanting stopped and the heat faded. Mike didn't move, even when there was silence. He was still shaking, his breath coming in quick and shallow—though unpained—gasps. He felt Harvey's thumb graze over his cheek and finally thought it might be safe to open his eyes.

He was wrong.

There was something in the backseat beside him, gray and inhuman. It had a round face and black, sunken sockets where its eyes should've been, and yet Mike knew it was staring at him. The rest of it was covered in what looked like layered gray robes, except for its hands, which clung to the sleeve of Mike's suit, though Mike couldn't feel it there. Its skin looked almost rotten, but dry and wrinkled. Whatever it was, it stank of death.

Mike was sure he was going crazy.

"It's a reaper," he heard Harvey say. Mike realized Harvey was staring at it, too—he could _see_ it—though not in shock, or fear, or surprise. He actually seemed to be challenging it.

"He's fine," Harvey told the thing. He pulled back the cloth of Mike's shirt to demonstrate. Mike saw only unmarred skin; the wound was gone. "See?" Harvey asked, raising his eyebrows at it. "You can go. He's not yours today."

Whatever it was made a low sound, like a hum, that seemed sad to Mike's ears. Its fingers unhooked one by one from Mike's sleeve, and then it was gone.

"Harvey," Mike said after a moment. He sat up straighter in his seat, trying to keep the hysteria out of his voice. "What the _fuck_ did you do to me?"


End file.
